Unspoken
by Firebird93
Summary: Andy tells herself that she is not breaking her rule with this thing with Miranda Priestly.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Unspoken

**Author: **Firebird93

**Pairing: **Miranda/Andy

**Summary: **Andy tells herself that she is not breaking her rule with this thing with Miranda Priestly.

**Disclaimer: **_The Devil Wears Prada_ and its characters do not belong to me. I am making no profit from this story.

Andy Sachs can't do sex without love. Well, she _can_; the mistake with Christian Thompson proved that. And though she knows on an intellectual level that sex and love are two entirely different things, she has discovered that one without the other leaves her feeling dirty and empty. So she makes it a rule to avoid it.

She tells herself that she is not breaking her rule with this thing with Miranda Priestly. Because Andy is in love with her ex-boss. It's just that Miranda is not in love with Andy.

When this arrangement (it is not an affair, since neither of them is cheating on someone else) began several months after Andy quit working at _Runway_, Andy believed that having part of Miranda Priestly would be better than having nothing at all. She may not have Miranda's heart, she consoled herself, but at least she could have her body. She could revel in the fact that Miranda Priestly, one of the world's foremost authorities on beauty, desired her.

Andy was wrong. Having part of Miranda has only made more acute her awareness of what she is missing. She mourns deeply what she will never have with Miranda: morning conversations over coffee, quiet dinners at home, evenings spent in companionable silence as Miranda reviews the Book and Andy works on an article, falling asleep in each other's arms.

In an attempt to ease the ache, Andy thinks about all the negative things she is being spared, not least of which is being the object of intense press scrutiny (no doubt her esteemed Fourth Estate colleagues would label her a gold digger and Miranda a cradle-robber undergoing a serious midlife crisis).

It doesn't work. Because Andy is so deeply in love with Miranda that she would gladly bear the ridicule and the pressure; she would find a way to deal with any and all of the challenges and obstacles a relationship with _Runway_'s editor in chief would no doubt entail.

Every time she and Miranda have sex (she can't say "making love" and she won't call it "fucking"), Andy's heart breaks a little more. She is careful to hide this from Miranda's sharp gaze, just as she has taken great pains to hide any emotion other than sexual desire. She struggles to keep any hint of her feelings from her own too-expressive eyes. She refrains from giving into the urge to caress Miranda's beautiful face, to take her in her arms and simply hold her, to place the gentlest of kisses on her lips.

By tacit agreement, gestures of emotional intimacy such as those are not permitted.

Even so, their sexual chemistry is nothing short of astonishing. The eerie synchronicity they developed toward the end of their working relationship seems to have carried over into the bedroom, where they effortlessly and accurately read and anticipate each other's deepest desires and respond to each other openly and unselfconsciously. Miranda, unsurprisingly, is an extraordinarily skilled lover; she makes Andy explode like a star gone supernova. And – and Andy marvels at this – Andy does the same for Miranda.

It's not enough anymore. It never really was. The arrangement has to end. Because Andy is dying inside.

So on this particular cold winter night, after she and Miranda have _fucked_ (she forces herself to think the hated word) each other nearly comatose and Andy is preparing to leave the editor's Upper East Side townhouse as she always does, she turns toward the bed.

She breathes in the scent of sex and Miranda's signature perfume, drinks in the sight of Miranda gloriously naked, her pale skin flushed, iconic white hair tousled, blue eyes hazy with sexual satisfaction.

She wants to weep.

"Goodbye, Miranda," she says softly and brushes her lips over Miranda's for the first – and last time – ever.

She knows with that single word and that one small act, she has revealed everything she has worked so hard to hide. And she knows that in doing so, in confessing her violation of one of the unspoken rules of their agreement, she invites Miranda's ridicule, disdain, or contempt.

But better Andy herself should suffer utter humiliation than risk hurting the woman she loves. Because ending this thing between them with no explanation, no indication of why, would certainly hurt Miranda's pride. Miranda would most likely think that Andy walked away because she has grown tired of Miranda.

Before Miranda has time to react, Andy leaves.

Though her throat is so tight she can barely breathe and her eyes burn and her chest aches and her stomach hurts, she does not let herself cry until she gets back to her tiny apartment. But once there, she curls up on her bed and sobs.


	2. Chapter 2

Andy throws herself into work, feverishly researching and writing articles. She goes to the gym and exercises until she can no longer distinguish her sweat from her tears. She cleans her apartment obsessively.

When she is too exhausted to do anything else, she crawls into bed to sleep.

And dreams of Miranda.

Andy suspects that she is still dreaming when Miranda appears at her door two weeks later.

Andy stares at her wordlessly. She never anticipated this. No, she had figured that she and Miranda would never again cross paths by design. By accident, perhaps, because Andy is a journalist covering the city beat and Miranda is a very public figure whose philanthropic efforts sometimes bring her within Andy's professional sphere. In fact, that was how they met again for the first time following Paris.

The editor, who has no doubt just come from her office after putting in a 14-hour day terrorizing her staff into excellence, looks effortlessly, flawlessly beautiful.

Andy, on the other hand, certainly does not look fashionable or beautiful after yet another 20-hour day doing everything she can to avoid thinking about Miranda. Heck, she's barely presentable in her flannel pajama pants and Northwestern University sweatshirt.

"May I come in, Andréa?"

Any headway Andy might have made toward getting over Miranda – and it was very little – is lost upon hearing Miranda say her name like that, in the way particular to the editor alone.

Andy's brain and basic motor functions finally engage. She nods and steps aside, allowing Miranda to sweep into her miniscule (but spotlessly clean) studio apartment.

Miranda removes her stylish coat and drapes it neatly over the arm of the threadbare sofa before setting her Birkin bag down and seating herself with her legs crossed elegantly and her hands folded primly in her lap.

Andy closes the door and gingerly perches on a chair facing her unexpected visitor.

She doesn't understand what Miranda is doing here, but she braces herself for the worst.

"Why, Andréa?" Miranda asks, her tone sounding genuinely curious.

Andy's brain stalls again. _Why?_ What does Miranda mean? She can't possibly be asking why Andy ended the arrangement; that couldn't be any clearer.

Andy searches Miranda's face for some clue as to her thoughts, to her emotional state, to her agenda. She sees no hint of mockery or disdain, no indication that Miranda is about to spring a trap. It takes her a moment to identify what she _does_ see: vulnerability. Just the barest hint, so slight that it would be invisible to anyone who hasn't dedicated hours to studying that countenance, learning to read it.

_Oh, God._ It hits her, exactly what Miranda is asking. And with understanding comes both sheer terror and cautious hope. Because there must be a reason why Miranda feels compelled to ask.

Andy takes a deep breath in an attempt to calm her pounding heart. Sensing how much could ride on her answer, she chooses her words carefully. "I'm not interested in your money or in what your influence can do to further my career or the power and perks that being associated with you would confer to me." Her eyes plead with Miranda to believe her. "I love you, Miranda, because you're _you_. Complex. Brilliant. Beautiful. Sophisticated. Worldly. Accomplished. Confident. Driven. Intense. Observant. Strong. Magnetic. Fiercely protective of those you love. Fascinating." She pauses before adding, "Demanding. Impatient. Arrogant. Obstinate. Critical. Flawed. Real." She drops her gaze to the floor and whispers, "Perfectly imperfect."

Finally, _finally_, it's been said. Spoken aloud. Verbalizing it feels good, cathartic, even as it reminds Andy that there is no way that Miranda could ever see her former assistant as worthy of a place in her life, of her love. Andy counts herself lucky to have been deemed worthy of a place in her bed.

She hears Miranda inhale sharply, but cannot bring herself to look up. And then the other woman is standing in front of her.

She is stunned to feel a single finger gently trace her jaw line to her chin. That finger brings Andy's head up, forcing her eyes to meet Miranda's.

Andy's breath catches.

"Andréa Sachs," Miranda says with a small smile, "you are the most courageous person I have ever met."

Andy stops breathing altogether.

Because now she can see in Miranda's electric blue gaze love and longing, tenderness and warmth, affection and respect.

"Smart. Kind. Compassionate. Curious. Resilient. Tenacious. Resourceful. Talented. Hard-working. Intuitive. Ambitious. Generous-spirited. Loyal. Empathetic. Charming. So very lovely." Miranda reaches with her other hand to cup Andy's cheek. "Idealistic. Self-righteous. Impetuous. Too easily hurt. Inclined to undervalue yourself and your importance to others. To me. Silly girl," Miranda chastises softly. "I love you, too."

Eyes welling with tears, Andy exhales shakily as she tries to wrap her head around Miranda's impossible, wonderful words.

Disbelief gives way to a joy so profound that it renders her lightheaded. With a choked sob, she launches herself into Miranda's arms and cries into the crook of her neck.

Miranda holds her tightly and presses her lips to Andy's temple. "Darling," she murmurs, and the wonder and happiness in her voice cause Andy to lift her head to look at her.

Miranda kisses her then, and, dear God, it is so sweet, so intimate, that Andy whimpers in protest when it ends.

The expression on Miranda's face indicates she is equally affected. "Come to bed, Andréa," she says quietly. "Make love with me. In the morning, we can talk about other things."

Smiling for the first time in weeks, Andy nods.

Because for now, nothing more needs to be said. For now, the rest can remain unspoken.


End file.
